Tea Story Nadia Hsu

Tea Story

Jasmine is for the late morning. Me or my dad will ask the other if they want tea, and the other will say yes, and together we will watch the petals uncurl in Sunday-yellow’d light. In the kitchen, leaning against the granite countertop like I have watched him do my whole life, I will watch the kettle, looking out the window — Whistle’d kettle over Al Green — Old things, very old, how yellow! And together we will read our respective emails or novels, silently. Jasmine tea is earthy and dark on my tongue, down my throat, as I breathe — in, earthy filling my lungs, the light fills my face, tea coating the lungs.

Chrysanthemum is for evenings. Synchronous, in synchronicity, swinging to the tune, we hum: The jasmine blooms yellow / gray under the water. No infuser, because “it’s prettier,” and I choose the prettiest spoon to stir in Honey or rock sugar, very sublime. The flowers make delicate canyons and dragons under the water. There, tip the kettle like this, and Two finger knocks on the table means “more, please,” Whistle’d thunder, thunder! “Count the seconds.” And I lean my face very close to the mug, nose nearly touching the liquid, And I let the delicateness into my nose and my skull And in this yellow’d we look alike canyons, going together, in the end.

Peppermint is for the even later evenings. When he gets home late, and my brother is asleep, and I am standing on the porch watching the shadows of oak leaves make manic pirouettes on the dirt and swan lake windchimes, and his headlights interrupt their dance. He will recount his evening, and ask if I want watermelon, and start cutting watermelon. “This big yellow spot is how you know it’s a good one.” But in fact it is not a good one (he frowns), yellow and seedy, so instead we have grapefruit. And I pick out the slimy black seeds of the watermelon corpse, and I make a pyramid of seed and rind on the edge of the cutting board. Together, under the solitary yellow circle of kitchen light, we pick away at our grapefruit halves. Silently, until the kettle whistles. And I watch him lean against the granite countertop, waiting for the tea to steep. And I watch him watch the shiny canyons and dragons of yellow honey amalgamating at the bottom of the mugs.